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After Office Hours 



AND 



Other Poemj 



BY 



JOHN W. WILSON. 



Copyright 1898 by John W. Wilson. 



, Champlin Printing Co. 
Columbus, Ohio 
1898. 



1 |* 







i • *r 



sn^^r so^.v%fi% 



The Edition of this Book is limited to two hundred and 
fifty copies. Each copj is signed and numbered and 
this book is number 






\ 




gwliratad to tfce msmnrg nf mg matter. 






Contents. 

PAGE 

Introduction 7 

After Office Hours 9 

To St. Valentine 10 

To 11 

Friendship, Love and Truth 12 

Buckeye Qirls 14 

Hot Tamale Man 15 

A Red Rose 16 

Christmas Wishes 17 

My Mother's Bible 18 

Invocation 21 

New Year's Day, 1898 22 

Petrarch 23 

To Amy 24 

"The Boys" 25 

Devotion 27 

When Nellie and I Go Bowling 28 

Columbia, The Gem of The Ocean 29 

R. A. F. ( a baby) 31 

At Dusk 32 

Letter to G. N. B 34 

Retrospection 36 

To 39 

Auld Lang Syne 40 

The Fountain of Youth 43 

The Way of The Transgressor 44 

Letter to G. N. B., Pittsburg 47 

"Kimmie" 51 

Destruction of the Albemarle 52 

Illustrations* 

Frontispiece 

My Mother's Bible 19 

Retrospection 37 

5 



To The Reader: 

' Tis not to win the golden prize 

Or poet's laurel bays, 
I've sought to place before your eyes 

These few and simple lays. 

They've often lightened heavy grief, 

Have solaced lonely hours 
And proved a source of great relief 

When grim misfortune lowers. 

And, hence, I wish that I might gain 

Your kindly judgment, friend, 
For these, my children of the brain, 

Who do such comfort lend. 

To Abraham, God pledged reprieve 

For Sodom's evil throng, 
If in it's midst he could perceive 

A few who hated wrong. 

So, if, amid the ruder strains 
Which here do meet your quest, 

You find some rarer song obtains, 
Let it redeem the rest. 

—J. W. W. 

Columbus, Ohio, September 20, 1898. 



After Office Hours* 

At close of day, within my den, 

There's nought for me in mortal ken 
More sweet than, in that quiet nook, 

To be alone with pipe and book. 
It boots not then what book I use, 

If Burns or Shakespeare I peruse; 
It matters not if pipe of clay 

Or one of meerschaum holds the sway. 
It is enough, it seems to me, 

A little while to merely be 
With pipe and book. 

At that fair time, cares pass away 

And all the worries of the day; 
Foreclosures, contracts, suits in tort 

Make room for thoughts of calmer sort. 
Though oft' my pipe doth cease to burn 

And back my thoughts do idly turn 
To brood, in melancholy strain, 

O'er long-lost joys I'll ne'er regain, 
Yet, 'tis, for me, a pleasant way 

To close the labors of the day, 
With pipe and book. 

Contented then, I sit at ease 

With pipe in hand and book on knees 
And seek the while the pleasures sage 

Of soothing pipe and storied page. 
Nor need I care if youthful prime 

Is yielding now to touch of time; 
Though wealth's elusive, friends are few 

And love itself is less than true, 
I need not turn, pale Death, to thee, 

Since fate allows me yet to be 
With pipe and book. 



To St Valentine, 

Thou cause of sweet thoughts and of anticipations 

That give to the cheeks of the maidens a tint 
To rival the hue of the reddest carnations, 

At sight of the missives that through thee are sent ! 
To thee do I offer my choicest libations, 

To thee and thy altar my off'rings I bring 
And, e'en with my best of poetic creations, 

Of thee and my sweetheart together I sing. 



10 



To 

The poets may sing of the heroes of story 

In words that are swelling, majestic and grand, 
The orator's theme be the ever bright glory 

Of him who hath died for his dear native land: 
But the lines of the poet, the orator's phrases 

Would feebly express the emotions divine 
Which hope in the breast of John W. raises. 

At thought that, perchance, he'll be thy valentine. 

The warrior's happiest when he is earning 

The laurels of fame 'mid the battle field's din; 
The scholar, in secret, forever is yearning 

The innermost secrets of nature to win ; 
While others both learning and fame are foregoing 

And seeking their pleasures in riot and wine; 
But the gods would fill my cup of bliss overflowing 

Should they make me, dear lady, thy true valentine. 

Oh! strewn be thy pathway through life with the flowers 

That brighten what else is a desert of life; 
May each single one of the swift fleeting hours 

Come to thee unburdened with care or with strife; 
May ever about thee be friends without number 

To whisper to thee all their blessings benign, 
If only, 'mid all they can say, will be treasured 

The earnest "God guard thee" of thy valentine. 



11 



Friendship, Love and Truth, 

The subjects most by bards extolled 

Are warfare, fame and glory, 
The wild excitement of the chase 

And heroes great of story. 
My muse ne'er loved such lofty flights, 

Contented it to dally 
Beside some wild-rose bordered brook, 

In some embowered valley: 
And better still it loves to sing 

Our noble lodge, in sooth, 
And best of all to hymn a song 

Of Friendship, Love and Truth. 

And though my muse ne'er soars aloft 

With proud, triumphant strain, 
It yet can sing fraternal ties 

With true, heart-felt refrain. 
Than Friendship holy, Love profound, 

And Truth like crystal sea. 
What theme more worthy poet's pen, 

What nobler could there be? 
Then, sound, Oh, Muse! thy sweetest strains 

To charm the hearts of youth 
And teach to all the blessings great 

Of Friendship, Love and Truth. 



12 



Oh, Friendship, praised since ancient days, 

Theme e'en of sacred pen! 
Too oft', alas, thou'rt but a name, 

A mirage false to men: 
For man, in search of place or pelf, 

This goal in view doth hold 
And passes pain unheeding by, 

E'en like the priest of old. 
Though Duty's voice doth bid him aid 

The trav'ler, in his ruth, 
He passes by, and all for lack, 

Of Friendship, Love and Truth. 

How different in our order great 

Appear these virtues three! 
Here rich and poor, here high and low, 

Do all in love agree: 
And oft' a brother in distress 

Has aid and comfort new, 
A helping hand, and words of cheer, 

From friends and brothers true, 
Until he lifts his streaming eyes 

In thanks to Him above 
Who plants, in human hearts, the flowers 

Of Friendship, Truth and Love. 



13 



Buckeye Girls* 

I sing of the maidens most worthy renown, 

The girls of Ohio, in country and town, 
And where can be found maids of beauty as great 

As that which we find in our own Buckeye state. 

Oh! sing, all who will, of Circassian dame 
And give the fair Georgian's beauty to fame : 

But there's never a one of them all who competes 
With the girls to be seen, any day, on our streets. 

The beauty of Cloris did Horace applaud 
And Tennyson sang of the glorious Maud; 

But, were they now living, their loveliest song 
To the Buckeye, the fairest of all, would belong. 

The famed Andalusian girls of old Spain, 

Lord Byron has praised in extravagant strain: 

But those amorous beauties, 'neath sunny skies grown, 
Lack the sweet modest charm that the Buckeye doth own. 

Kentucky's proud damsels long famous have been, 
The theme of her poets, the pride of her men, 

But Ohio has beauty in those whom I sing 
Outvying the fairest Kentucky can bring. 

Then, Hail, to Ohio, the pride of the earth! 

And Hail to her daughters, the acme of worth! 
And may they continue, as now, to excel. 

As models of virtue, and beauty, as well. 



14 



The Hot Ta.ma.le Man* 

When the icy winds of winter whistle all along the street, 
And the pavements all are coated with a glassy film of sleet, 
When the frost appears to pierce us to the marrow of our bones, 
Then this cry is borne in on us couched in wild stentorian tones: 

" Hot tamales, hot tamales, three for five and all are hot; 

Hot tamales, hot tamales, they're the best you ever got." 

You, perhaps, have been out calling and have done your very best 
Just to please a dainty maiden in her youth and beauty dressed 
And, returning, lost in rev'ry, while you walk as best you can, 
Find your pleasant thoughts are scattered by the hot tamale man. 

" Hot tamales, hot tamales, three for five and all are hot; 

Hot tamales, hot tamales, they're the best you ever got." 

You, perchance, have just been dreaming that your ship has 

crossed the main 
And have just begun a building airy castles, too, in Spain, 
When, alas, their walls are shattered and they tumble all about, 
While your ear drum's almost ruined by the hot tamale shout. 
"Hot tamales, hot tamales, three for five and all are hot; 
Hot tamales, hot tamales, they're the best you ever got." 



15 



A Red Rose* 

The flower thou gavest, I cherish it still. 

I'll cherish it ever through good and through ill. 
Though it wither and fade, as all earthly things must, 

Yet its relics I'll keep 'till I'm laid in the dust. 
Around it fond memories ever will cling: 

Though beauty desert it, it visions will bring, 
Recollections of thee it will e'er for me bear 

As sweet as the scent it once gave to the air. 

My hopes, which bloomed like it, like it may decay 

And the breast it adorned may from me turn for aye; 
The lips that caressed it — its rivals in hue — 

May refuse the sweet boon I desire from you; 
The head that bent o'er it, with shy maiden grace, 

May ne'er turn to me for its true resting place. 
Though thine eyes that have beamed on this flower and me 

May ne'er show the love-light in them I would see. 

Though the gold of my sky in a dull gray does merge 

And my heart, for its hopes, beat a low, solemn dirge, 
Yet "The heart that has truly loved loves to the close" 

And hence I will treasure my poor little rose. 
'Tis a symbol, perchance, of a hope that has passed, 

A bright dream of joy far too lovely to last; 
But the mem'ries it brings are most precious to me, 

Since they call up an image of love and of thee. 



16 



Christmas Wishes* 

This is the chosen day throughout the whole of Christian earth 
To celebrate in fittest form the great Redeemer's birth; 

To illustrate the great good will that man to man should hold 
And so advance that "Peace on earth," as sung by them of old. 

This day, we, therefore, give our friends some tokens of our love, 
As symbols of the feelings pure enjoined by Him above. 

Let whoso will give gems of price, or treasures from the mine, 
The priceless products of the arts, or fabrics fair and fine, 

Or frank-incense and myrrh renowned, or pearls from out the sea— 
The fairest gifts the earth affords are none too fair for thee. 

But, as a gift 'bove things of earth, I venture here to send, 
In all heartfelt sincerity, the blessings of a friend. 

I trust this Christmas day will find thee healthy as can be, 
With naught of sorrow or of care to mar its festal glee; 

That friendship will its off'rings bring to lay at thy dear feet 
And that you may of nothing lack to make thy joy complete. 

I pray the Power who keeps this earth within its orbit great, 

Who counts the head's unnumbered hairs, who marks the spar- 
row's fate, 

May guard thee with His tender care from ev'ry rude alarm 
And, through a long and happy life, protect thee from all harm. 

And though wise Providence may dim thy bright eyes with a tear, 
May e'en thy tears be tears of joy and not of woe or fear. 

And, as the greatest blessing I can invoke for thee, 
I pray that He'll preserve for aye thy spotless purity. 



17 



My Mother's Bible. 

I have studied the works of the masters sublime 

And the books of the writers of old, 
But there's naught I have found in the annals of time. 
In the authors obscure or the writers sublime, 
Either written in prose or embalmed in a rhyme, 

That I love like this volume I hold. 

In this book, we see Christ by dark Gallilee pace 

Or stand by Samaria's well; 
How Jehovah with Job did converse, face to face; 
How the love of the father does all things embrace; 
Or the justice of God to'rds his creatures we trace, 

When we on its dread pages do dwell. 

There's a beauty and tenderness wholly benign 

In the lessons it ever does teach : 
In the hut of grim want, like a gem it doth shine; 
It doth lighten the labor in depth of the mine 
And to point out the way to the mercy divine, 

It even the convict may reach. 

But 'tis not for its beauties nor yet as a guide, 

That this time battered book I revere, 
'Tis the volume my mother once cherished with pride, 
'Tis the book that she ever did keep by her side 
And it held out a promise on which she relied 
When aught evil did threaten her here. 

And on memory's canvass, her picture's most fair 

As she traced out the promise it gave. 
I can see her quite plain as, with reverent air, 
She turned o'er its pages with tenderest care 
And gathered the promise she found for her there 

Of the peace that lay just past the grave. 



18 



^ '" ;^| 




And on memory's canvass, her picture's most fair 

As she traced out the promise it gave. 
I can see her quite plain as, with reverent air, 
She turned o'er its pages with tenderest care 
And gathered the promise she found for her there 
Of the peace that lay just past the grave. 

19 



Invocation* 

Oh, Thou, Great Cause of all that was, 

Or is, or is to be! 
With heart oppressed and spirit crushed, 

I come for aid to thee. 
I'm sick of fate's unceasing blows, 

Of constant pangs and grief, 
And all my future seems to hold 

No promise of relief. 
In vain, to me, appeal the flowers 

That deck the field and lawn; 
In vain the rosy flush bespreads 

The eastern sky at dawn. 
The lisp of leaves by breezes moved, 

The fountains pleasant play, 
The diamond sparkle of the dews, 

The joyous song-birds' lay, 
The gentle murmur of the brooks, 

Meand'ring to the sea, 
Though all endowed with beauty rare, 

Afford small joy to me. 
From dawn of day till gloom of night, 

From night till day is born, 
I'm learning with the poet, Burns, 

"That man was made to mourn." 
Ye shades of the enduring brave, 

Who long have passed away, 
Be with me in adversity, 

My comfort and my stay. 
Beneath the burdens grim of life, 

Teach me with you to vie 
And, if I fall beneath the load, 

Then show me how to die. 



21 



New Year's Day, 1898. 

Another year has dropped from off the chain of ages vast 

To fall, for aye, in the abyss of all the ages past. 
Old Ninety-seven's days are o'er for sorrow or for glee 

And we have come, Oh, Ninety-eight, to pay respects to thee. 

Three hundred days and sixty-five, you've come with us to be: 
Though young, you have no guardian grim but are an agent free ; 

You've no next friend on whom to place the burden of your cause 
And so must bear the blame you earn as well as the applause. 

Hence, let us hope you'll not delight in many wars and woes 
And that you'll not so act to make of all mankind thy foes. 

Give not to us the pestilence or famine grim and dire 
But emulate, if not excell, the virtues of thy sire. 

What ills thy predecessor's days saw happen to myself, 

The cares endured, the sorrows borne, the hard'ning lack of pelf, 

And, worse than all the other ills, what loss of friends befell, 
It matters not, I've no complaints or tales of grief to tell. 

What though, for me as for the world, those days much ill have 
wrought, 

It's more than counterbalanced by the recompense they brought; 
Increase of business and of health, fair share of golden store, 

A friend more dear than all beside, what could I ask for more. 

Although the web and woof of life is never unmixed good, 

Yet, still, more friend than foe to me, has Ninety-seven stood; 

And, so, I say, young Ninety-eight, you do as well as he 
And, at thy end, I'll raise a hymn of praises unto thee. 



22 



Petrarch* 

Six hundred years have fled apace, 

Six hundred years of storm and sun, 
Since Petrarch first saw Laura's face, 

In St. Clair church, in Avignon. 
Their meeting was, in sober truth, 

A fateful one in their affairs; 
But though it wrought them pain and ruth, 

It gave the world its sweetest airs. 

It wrecked the poet's peace of mind, 

The while the poet's heart it fired; 
But by his hopeless love refined, 

He sang the songs the world admired. 
Though sweet appears the call of fame 

And sweet successful love appears, 
His sonnets to his lost one's name, 

He made more sweet to human ears. 

The tides of time have rolled, since then, 

O'er men and nations, tongues and creeds 
Aud buried from all mortal ken 

The records of men's mighty deeds. 
But his true song, with passion fraught, 

His hopeless off'ring at her shrine, 
The deathless wreaths of love he wrought 

Have won themselves a life divine. 
Oh, lover of Italian clime! 

Oh, singer of the deathless fame ! 
Though men and nations yield to time, 

Immortal thou made Laura's name. 
And would that I like skill could claim 

To wed my thoughts to noble verse, 
That I might write my sweetheart's name 

For fame immortal to rehearse. 



23 



To Amy* 

Come, list, my sweet Amy, come list to my lay, 
Come, lend me thine ear for a moment, I pray, 

For to sing of thy manifold charms is my aim 
And, eke, my delight in the sound of thy name. 

For e'en as the hart for the water-brook pants, 
My soul seeks the music that name ever grants ; 

And sweet as the favors true love ever gives, 
A feeling ecstatic within it e'er lives. 

Its syllables dulcet I've ever admired 

Far more than the hymns of the angels enchoired; 
Its harmony ever doth break on my ears 

Like the ravishing melody made by the spheres. 

Its sound is a well-spring of constant delight; 

It calls up a vision most fair to the sight, 
A vision of thee, in thy charms unsurpassed, 

Those charms which have made me thy slave to the last. 

Though the name has a beauty that's wholly its own, 
'Tis the fairer because of thy charm to it grown. 

And though 'twere the fairest that ever might be 
That would tend but to make it more fitting for thee. 



24 



"The Boys" 

As down in the west 

Sinks the fiery sun 
And I rest myself 

After work well done, 

From the mist-clad hills 
Of the long gone past, 

Come the thronging thoughts, 
Oh, how quick and fast! 

And I seem once more 

But a boy in years, 
And to fill the air 

With my thoughtless cheers, 

And the times once more 
With joy seem to fill, 

As I roam with the boys 
Around old Zanesville. 

What a crowd we were 

In our thoughtless glee! 
A pack of young scamps 

We no doubt seemed to be. 
Yet my heart leaps up 

And my pulses thrill, 
At remembered sport 

With Arth or with Will, 

And I laugh as I think 
Of mischievous prank 

That I've often played 
Upon Ote or on Frank. 



25 



But soon in the mind 
The illusions made 

By the mirage of memory 
Grow fainter, then fade. 

In sweet balmy sleep 

Tired senses find, 
A Balm of Gilead 

For the weary mind. 

But the last clear thought 
Ere perception roams, 

Is to breathe the prayer 
Of the poet Holmes, 

That, at length, after life 
With its strange alloys, 

God will tenderly care for 
His children, the boys. 



26 



Devotion. 

Oh! Georgie, dear boy, to the South End, has gone 

And whistles and sings, as he hurries along. 
The words, "Annie Rooney," we hear as we pass; 

But th' name in his heart 's of a different lass, 
Not that of Miss Rooney, recorded in song 

And hummed by dear George, as he hastens along. 
'Tis a different maiden, neat, modest and trim 

And not the fair Annie that interests him. 
Let Tennyson sing of the glorious Maud 

And Horace the beauties of Cloris applaud, 
But "The girl of all girls," says our George, with a laugh, 

"Is she of South High, one, nineteen and a half." 
Not rain, wind or storm can our Georgie delay, 

When he to this fair one his devoirs would pay. 
And his devoirs so great are to pay them aright 

Our Georgie must call on his girl ev'ry night. 
He leaves the gymnasium, departs with a whirl, 

In order to call on this beautiful girl. 
"For the glory of God," the religionists crv, 

Should the thoughts of us mortals be fixed upon high. 
But George has a plan of different kind, 

In order to keep his religion in mind, 
He knows that his faith in his God will not fade, 

While he worships so strongly what God so well made. 
And on Sunday, to keep his religion in tune, 

He calls on his girl morning, ev'ning and noon. 



27 



When Nellie and I Go Bowling. 

I've tried many pleasures — or pastimes so called — 
And my cash and my time thus I've spent, 

But in none have I found any joy so profound 
As when bowling with Nellie I went. 

Though Walton praised angling as excellent sport, 

Yet it wearies me e'en to the soul 
To sit still and wait — though I've plenty of "bait." 

I'd rather with Nellie go bowl. 

There's a barbarous pleasure in slaughter of game, 
Though you tramp through the cold and the wet, 

But it's minus the joy that I have sans annoy, 
When at bowling with Nellie I get. 

I enjoy a good play at the theatre, too, 

When the art's in the actor's control, 
But the very best play, I'd desert any day 

To go with sweet Nellie to bowl. 

'Neath the warm, cosy shed, with its lights overhead, 

And the balls with their rythmical roll, 
There her sweet girlish grace makes an exquisite place 

When Nellie and I go to bowl. 



23 



" Columbia., The Gem Of The Ocean/' 

In the great world's youth, when it first 'gan to range, 
With bewild'ring haste, down the great groves of change, 

When the wood-god, Pan, and the Oreads fleet 
Peopled mountain and forest and shady retreat; 

When the voice of the speaker returned from beyond, 
Recalled the nymph, Echo, of Narcissus fond, 

When each crystal spring and loud babbling brook 
The beautiful form of a fair naiad took. 

In short, long before much learning had birth 

Or science or art had appeared upon earth, 
And all that religion comprised, in truth, 

Were these weird but lovely "illusions of youth." 

There belonged, it is said, to the wonderful train 
Of beings that dwelt in th' Olympic domain 

A youth by tradition and story renowned, 

Who, at birth, sprang at once from his crib to the ground, 

And in shell of a tortoise began to infuse 
The wild lyric strains of Euterpe, the muse, 

And then, ere the night the day 'gan to follow, 
Had stolen the herd of the sun-god, Apollo. 



29 



A patron of learning and a giver of joy 
Were qualities, too, of this wonderful boy, 

And a part he still takes, at times, though afar, 
Is that of a beautiful evening star. 

Many times in its orbit each great world appears 
To the sound of the wonderful "Music of spheres" 

Ere the gods send again a youth through their portal 
As worthy as Hermes of honors immortal; 

Till, at length, that from misery great he may free us, 
Columbia is sent by all-powerful Zeus. 

Like Hermes of old, she descends from the sky, 
'Tis in 'j6 on the Fourth of July. 

As precocious as Hermes, she scarce reaches ground 
Ere blessings as great in her wake are found. 

With the spirit of liberty swelling each vein 
All tyranny ancient is ruthlessly slain. 

Moreover, our age, much more modern, by far, 
Than that of the light-fingered evening star, 

Has more thoroughly taught our Columbia divine 
The radical difference 'tween "Mine" and "Thine." 

And now she stands by her wide open door, 
With bountiful hand off'ring joy to the poor. 

Oh, may she remain in the national sky, 

A star of first magnitude, shining on high! 

And may she, our country, continue to shine, 
The pole-star of freedom for all coming time, 

'Till long ages hence the whole world shall be, 
As Columbia now is, "The Home of the Free." 



30 



R. A. F. 

(A Baby J 

A health, a triple health, to thee, 
Thou new-born rose of Kankakee, 

Thou tender blossom of the love 
Sent to thy parents from above! 

Thy tiny, little hands, so weak, 

The faint, pink tinge upon thy cheek, 

Thy shell-like ear, do all proclaim 
Thee first in hearts as Furst in name. 

Thy subjects fain would round thee throng; 

Their loving thoughts to thee belong. 
Thy happiness is e'er the law 

Of grandma, aunts and grandpapa. 

God bless thee, babe, and keep thee far 
From all which thee might harm or mar, 

And may He give to thee the grace 
Of papa's nature, mamma's face. 



31 



At Dusk. 

I'm sitting in my office now; 

My toil this day is done 
And the soul no longer buoyed by work 

Sinks earthward with the sun. 
The shadows lengthen in the street, 

My spirits darken too 
And, be the cause whate'er it may, 

I'm feeling very blue. 

My work unsatisfact'ry is, 

My courage shirks the race, 
And, with the best of law and facts, 

I lose case after case. 
I had a cause to-day to try 

With right and law with me, 
But though as A, B, C, 'twas plain, 

The Justice would not see. 

I showered facts and law on him, 

I read like cases through ; 
He rode rough shod o'er law and facts 

And held against me too. 
So, now, to-night, I turn from work 

Disgusted with the bar 
And seek to find a solace in 

A pipe or good cigar. 

And as I watch the fleecy clouds 

Float slowly through the room, 
There quickly comes, with thoughts of thee, 

A light unto my gloom; 
I see within the smoke rings white 

A sight surpassing fair, 
A maiden sweet, with gracious mien 

And lovely dark brown hair. 



32 



The beatific vision has 
An aspect pure, serene, 

And eyes at once both dark and bright- 
No sweeter e'er were seen. 

I only wish those kindly eyes 
Might pierce my bosom's core, 

Lay bare the heart within my breast 
And con its secret o'er. 



33 



Letter To G. N. B. 

Friend George: — 

'Tis an act that with pleasure is rife 
To write to yourself and your excellent wife; 
'Tis a comfort near equal to that which I find 

In your hearty hand-clasp when hard fate is unkind. 
I know that your friendship for me makes you blind 

To my many defects, or of heart or of mind; 
That, by reason thereof, you my letters receive 
With a welcome their merits could never achieve. 

A book worm, as I am, ne'er gathers or sends 

The gossip that's spoken of all your old friends; 
Of the daily events of Ohio's chief town, 

I ever have noted but few of them down : 
But though all my letters of news show a dearth 

Concerning the dwellers on this part of the earth; 
Though their subjects each be, sui generis, apart, 

Yet, still, the said letters come warm from my heart 

And I feel, yea, I know, that each letter I write 

Will be hailed by you both with a friendly delight. 
Hence, one of the few pleasant things in my life 

Is to write to you both of my joys and my strife. 
With a confidence, born of the facts above shown, 

That your sympathy true is ever my own, 
I write to you freely what hardships I bear 

And I do so well knowing my sorrows you'll share. 

'Tis relief to a man of my lonely estate 

To have some true friends, those to. whom he may state, 
All his joy and his triumph, his hope or his fear, 

And the griefs that befall him with each passing year. 
I know of no others I'd venture to trust 

With the hopes that my fate has oft laid in the dust : 
No others would show such a sympathy fine 

As you have displayed for those hardships of mine. 

34 



When my courage has yielded to trouble, 'twas then 

You graced, for a time, my poor bachelor den 
And spoke with a kindness so tender and true 

That my heart, in remembrance, still warms towards you. 
When I have been sinking in sloughs of despond, 

Could see naught to hope for nor wish for beyond; 
When my spirit was bruised and my heart stricken sore 

And my joy in this life seemed to me to be o'er, 

You came with kind words of such healing and calm 

They fell on my spirit like Gilead's balm. 
And I'm not ungrateful, believe me, although, 

At the time, I, perhaps, had few thoughts to bestow 
Except on those subjects which caused such distress 

As to scarce leave me power my thanks to express. 
But, George, be my days few or long in the land, 

You'll e'er have my services at your command. 

Your friend, 

J. W. W. 



35 



"Retrospection/* 

All hail to her whose lovely face 

The artist here has shown: 
No mortal art can show the grace 

Which her true soul doth own. 

That soul has, from no evil strife, 

An ugly taint received 
But has, 'mid storm and stress of life, 

Perfection fine achieved. 

No need has she remorse to feel 

For her remembered joys 
When, ev'ry glance, her eyes reveal 

Them free from base alloys. 

She may indulge herself at will 

In retrospection true, 
Since only those whose deeds are ill 

With dread their past review. 



36 




ORIGINAL COPYRIGHTED BY BAKER'S ART GALLER 



Retrospection. 



To 

Oh! lady fair, accept, I pray, 

This tribute of regard 
And turn thee not, in scorn, away 

From praises of thy bard. 
Tis true that my desert is slight, 

That rude my verse appears; 
Yet still, each line, I to thee write, 

The truest feeling bears. 

Since first thy form appeared to me, 

Thy sweet face met my sight, 
My thoughts by day are fixed on thee, 

I dream of thee at night. 
So rare thy form, so neat thy waist 

Appear unto my gaze, 
My muse e'en stumbles in its haste 

Thy beauties to appraise. 

The violet in a shady park 

Recalls thy modest mien: 
Like two empurpled pansies dark, 

Thy sparkling eyes are seen. 
But though the fairest far to view 

Of any in the land, 
'Tis not alone thy beauty true 

That does my heart command. 

For while a maiden's fair to see, 

In loveliness arrayed, 
Yet innocence and modesty 

The best become a maid. 
These qualities I find in thee 

In measure most complete 
And, therefore, though in vain it be, 

I worship at thy feet. 



39 



Auld Lang Syne* 

In these burning days of summer, 

How my vivid fancy roams 
From my quiet, sober office, 

From my dry and dusty tomes ; 
From the many tedious questions, 

Or of contracts or of torts ; 
From the legal complications 

Of a thousand diff'rent sorts; 
From the constant contemplation 

Of the right by wrong oppressed; 
From the study, study, study 

How the wrong shall be redressed, 
Till once more the joys of boyhood 

Seem almost as truly mine 
As when life was still before me, 

In the days of auld lang syne. 
With store of health abundant, 

Bounding pulse and care-free breast, 
I live again those happy days, 

With all the old-time zest. 
Oh, the glory! Oh, the rapture! 

In the eager blood of youth, 
Ere the fairy tints of romance 

Yield to sober grays of truth; 



40 



When our acts owe less to reason 

Than to impulse of the heart 
And impressions have the sharpness 

Of the steel engraver's art; 
When great ambition dowers us 

With dreams of rich estate, 
Of gallant deeds of high emprise 

And guerdons wholly great; 
When the sunshine seems most golden 

And the sky is ever blue 
And our friends appear the truest 

That this old world ever knew; 

Then to love, and joy, and laughter, 

All our hours appear in tune 
And to pass away in beauty 

Like a perfect day in June: 
Then we pluck life's fairest flowers, 

Never dreaming thorns grow too, 
For the thorns are hid by flowers, 

Hidden deeply from our view. 
Ah, as pleasant as to flowers, 

Seems the early morning dew, 
So to me the recollections 

Of the days which I review. 

And what pure and wholesome pleasures 

Does the memory's scroll reveal 
When, from days of stern endeavor 

I an hour for rev'rie steal: 
Old friends' faces, half-forgotten, 

Peer up at me from the scroll; 
Merry scenes cause pleasant laughter 

To re-echo in the soul 
And I hear the admonitions 

And I feel the tender hand 
Of the gentle, angel mother, 

Long since in the better land. 

41 



I have clambered up a mountain, 

Very early in the morn, 
And turned to look beneath me 

On the fields of yellow corn 
That bordered on the river, 

Stretching on for league on league, 
And I've gazed upon a wondrous scene, 

Unconscious of fatigue; 
A mist, I scarce had noticed 

When I stood below the height, 
Now lay covering all before me 

With a mass of purest white, 

Save, where, here and there, a forest 

Bore a tree whose loftier height 
Pierced the white cloud resting on it 

As it soared towards the light. 
So I seem to be a-gazing 

From the heights of present time, 
On a vision spread before me 

Bringing thoughts almost sublime, 
On the hopes, the joys, the sorrows, 

On the anguish, on the tears, 
All enveloped, all enshrouded 

In the mist of parted years 

Save those stronger recollections 

Which, like trees the forest bore, 
Rend the veil which rests upon them 

And recall the days of yore. 
Lord Byron sings in queenly verse 

The joys of those who roam 
At seeing loved ones' eyes grow bright 

At their returning home. 
And equal joy awaits the soul, 

'Neath temples lined and gray, 
Whene'er it leaves its days of toil 

For those of Life's green May. 

42 



The Fountain Of Youth* 

'Way back in romantic days long- sped, 

The Spaniards, by Ponce De Leon led, 
Sought, in a land of which stories were rife, 
A fountain filled with elixer of life. 

For they, with their leader, conceived, in truth, 
That somewhere existed a fountain of youth 

And where would such spring more likely be found 
Than there in that wond'rous enchanted ground, 

Concerning which strange stories were told 
Of magnificent cities and streets of gold, 

Of populous empires and beautiful queens 
And the strangest, wildest, loveliest scenes, 

Unlimited forests and rivers long, 

With flowery banks and birds of song. 

And, better than all these things, forsooth, 
This wond'rous fount of perpetual youth. 

Thus they sang the praise of that unknown clime, 

With increasing fervor all the time, 
'Till the Spaniard sought, in the "Land of Flowers", 

This means of prolonging his mortal hours. 

You've read and re-read this story old 
And know the fate of the cavalier bold, 

An Indian arrow cut short, to his ruth, 

His search for the magic fountain of youth. 

Were I, in these modern days, to renew 

The search of De Leon and followers true, 

I'd hasten to seek the alluring prize 

In the liquid depths of my sweetheart's eyes 

And delighted I'd gaze in those orbs so bright, 
While the fires of youth would again relight, 

E'en though I felt the arrowy dart 

Of the hidden archer piercing my heart. 

43 



The Way Of The Transgressor* 

"Imprisoned for life, what a terrible doom! 

I'd better, far better be dead in the tomb. 
Imprisoned for life, while, mid sorrow and woe, 

Will Time's leaden footsteps fall ever more slow, 
Until death, long delayed, brings the worn heart peace, 

'Till the long prisoned soul gets a final release." 

And the convict's head bowed low on his chest, 
And a cry welled forth from his heaving breast; 

"I thank thee, Oh God, that by this unoppressed 
My mother has gone to eternal rest; 

That to her, ere I had a felon's name, 

The reward of the faithful servant came." 

And the face of the man, though hardened by sin, 
Showed plain that his conscience was stirred within. 

The fond word, "Mother," had brought up fast 
The ghosts of his long-since buried past; 

Its spell made the prison walls fade away 
Like morning mists 'fore the lord of day. 

And plain to the sight of his mental eyes, 
Doth the woodland home of his youth arise, 

And he seems to be living his youth anew, 
With its healthy pleasures, unfailing and true. 

He lingers again where the violets grow, 
Or brooklets babble, or wild winds blow; 



44 



Or, lying prone by some dark pool's brim, 
He admires the image it gives of him; 

He even scents the zephyrs mild, 
Laden with odors from flowers wild, 

Odors blended from columbines, 

From honeysuckle and balmy pines. 

Or he sleepily murmurs his evening prayer, 
While his mother kneels beside him there. 

Then soothed by the sound of the whisp'ring trees, 
Softly swayed by the gentle breeze, 

He sinks to rest as free from care, 

As beasts of the field or birds of the air. 

But these retrospective inward views 

Quickly assume more somber hues, 
As he traces o'er the course since run, 

As he sees once more the evils done; 
As he cons again the book of his past, 

Each page more blotted and blurred than the last. 

'Twas a record of sin that well might make 
The hardest heart in that prison quake. 

In spite of his father's anxious cares, 
In spite of his mother's tearful prayers, 

He had hurried on with reckless curse, 
He had hastened downward from bad to worse. 

Until — a tremor his being shook, 

And he cast 'round his cell a fearful look — 

Till he'd dyed his hands in human blood 
And stained his soul in the awful flood; 

Till he'd wrought for himself irremediable ills 
Pronounced 'gainst him who another kills. 

And, at these thoughts, his restless tread 

Paced to and fro by his prison bed; 
Till wearied by thoughts of his bitter lot, 

He sank at length on his wretched cot. 
But e'en as in sleep he restless tossed, 

His grim lips muttered, "I'm lost, I'm lost." 



45 



But the ways of God, His wondrous powers, 

Are veiled from finite eyes like ours; 
And He who all our hearts can see, 

Who saved the thief e'en on the tree, 
Can cause the convict yet to know 

His scarlet sins are white as snow. 
For God hath said that e'en for such 

The righteous' prayer availeth much; 
And as the lily can spotless climb 

Out of the swamps of ooze and slime, 
May not the mother's prayers yet win 

The soul of her son from the sloughs of sin? 



46 



Letter To G. N. B., Pittsburg. 

June 3, 1898. 
Friend George: — 

Of friends, the very best 
Though I search north, south, east and west, 
When last I chatted here with you, 

You claimed a letter was your due. 
So, now, to pay my honest debt, 
To rhyme and writing I will get. 

And if the product of my pen 

Puts you among afflicted men, 
If it should silly, senseless seem 

Or product of an opium dream, 
Then place the blame where it should be 

Not cast the burden all on me. 

You love to read — or so you write — 

What I and my poor muse indite. 
You've heaped up praises, aught but mild, 

Like Pelion on Ossa piled, 
Until my cheeks with blushes burned 

And, eke, perchance, my head was turned. 

I'd sorry be to think you'd flatter 

What my poor muse to you might chatter; 

That when you her do praise and coax, 
Your praises all are but a hoax; 

Or that you have not truly read 
With all the pleasure that you said. 



And though your friendship you may cause 
To give, perhaps, unearned applause, 

Yet, since encouragement you've lent 
To her to write what I have sent, 

Then, of what blame there is to bear, 
Why, you, yourself, should take a share. 

I hoped, when we forgathered last, 
Before great many days were past, 

That I to visit you might come 
In your own Smoky-City home. 

In fact, I thought your town to see 
At the same time as Mrs. B. 

As she has doubtless said to you, 
My preparations all were through 

To make the trip (Now don't you laugh.) 
In comp'ny with your "better half". 

(This compliment'ry phrase I use 
For fear my letter she'll peruse.) 

I'd even donned my best black coat 
And Sunday trousers, too, you'll note, 

And other things I'll not record, 
To take her to her lawful lord. 

(I'm well aware I'm tempting fate 
When of a woman's "lord" I prate. 

Whoe'er calls women "weaker sex" 
But uses words that all perplex: 

As far back as my hist'ry goes, 

They've led their "masters" by the nose. 

And who'd live happy in the land 
Must do whatever they command.) 



48 



Then when I'd done whate'er I could 

To make my escort seem most good 
To your fair spouse, likewise to you, 

My plans and trip alike fell through. 
My client — who did often say 

That she the whole expense would pay— 

Although she knew 'twould make me frown, 
Did not turn up but turned me down. 

And thus my pleasing plan was marred 
By fortune, luckless, evil-starred: 

And so my visit I'll omit 

To your old town, named after Pitt. 

Your wife, on leaving, kindly took 

A copy of my Pipe and Book, 
And ventured in your name to say 

That you'd deliver it to Grey 
If you can do so, then believe 

That you'll my hearty thanks receive. 

The daily papers all do say 

That Thomas Keene has passed away. 
We'll ne'er again the hours put through, 

Entranced by his great "Richelieu", 
Nor be by Shakespere's genius swayed 

As when poor "Tom" old Shylock played. 

Of great tragedians we're bereft, 
With only Walker Whitesides left, 

And in their places buffoons prance 
And painted hussies smirk and dance 

And think, perhaps, they'll make a hit 
By use of smutty, would-be wit. 



49 



And now I pray the gods, my friend, 

That health and wealth to you they'll send 
And, to increase your joy the more, 

They'll send you babes, some half a score: 
That such-like joys for you be won 
Is e'er the prayer of 

Your friend, 

JOHN. 



50 



" Kimmie/ ' 

You're a man, Kimmie, dear, in the prime of your life, 
If we trust to the tale of your years; 

Indeed, of that fact, the grim evidence rife 
From your hair — or its absence — appears. 

But 'tis only of woman and not of her lord, 
That they say "She's as old as she looks"; 
"A man is as old as he feels," we record 
With the maxims of men in the books. 

Admit the mere years of your boyhood have flown, 
With the hair barber Time has removed, — 

As a liar the chronicler ever is known — 

That you're young cannot well be disproved. 

No "Boy" is your equal throughout our great state 

For a good story told or enjoyed, 
And the man, with impunity, challenges fate 

Who with laughter, like you, is employed. 

The medal presented you, made of pure gold, — 

The metal's a type of your worth — 

"To Kimmie — On general principles," told, — 

The inscription accounts for its birth. 

Then let all the envious cavil and cry 

'Till they weary themselves with their strife, 

In spite of their sneers and the almanac's lie, 
Your youth will last long as your life. 

To W. B. K. 



51 



Destruction Of The Albemarle* 

You want a story, do you, boys, and want one of the wars? 

Well, Harry, kindly get a match and bring me my cigars: 
Then, while the smoke-wreaths intertwine, and white clouds rift 
the air, 

I'll tell you of heroic deed which few to do would dare, 
A deed of desp'rate daring in the days of gloom and woe 

When grim rebellion seemed about our nation to o'erthrow. •» 
The story's of an ironclad destroyed as was the Maine 

But not like it by treachery but 'midst the bullets' rain. 

And those who did the daring act which I do now relate 

Put life and limb in hazard of the soldier's deadly fate. 
They did not strike, assassin-like, an unsuspecting foe 

Nor seek a time of quiet peace to strike a deadly blow; 
But, in October, '64, the twenty seventh day, 

The while the rebel Albemarle in southern river lay, 
They sought the guarded foeman in the foeman's hostile land 

And dared whatever dire fate he had at his command. 

They staked their courage and their life against his greater might 

And trusted to the God of War the issue of the fight. 
No braver act the annals of the centuries reveal 

Than this one wrought by dishing and his comrades brave and 
leal. 
Leonidas and his command had scarce less room to hope 

When they with Persian Xerxes and his forces dared to cope; 
Horatius, at the Roman bridge, defending home and gods, 

Had not, with all his country's foes, to fight 'gainst greater odds; 



52 



No soldiers in the armies which Napoleon did command 

Did acts more brave than this one done by Cushing and his band. 
Six months the rebel Albemarle had held the southern seas; 

Six months her saucy rebel flag- had floated on the breeze. 
Her armor seemed invulner'ble to all the Union fleet; 

The greatest of our ships of war she forced to beat retreat; 
She stood unscathed by shot and shell before the cannon's mouth 

And moved, the terror of the seas, the champion of the south. 

Then brave Lieutenant Cushing and a dozen volunteers 

Prepared to rid those waters of this cause of Union fears. 
They fitted up a small steam launch scarce larger than a yawl — 

A cockle-shell to be destroyed by one small cannon ball — 
And on the prow they fixed a boom and on that, at its end, 

A dread torpedo which, 'twas hoped, beneath the waves would send 
This hated rebel ironclad and so remove the dread 

Which through the Union forces its destructive life had spread. 

All quietly they left the fleet, concealed by night's dark cloak, 

And swiftly as the racer speeds they reached the Roanoke. 
Here still more silently they moved, for 'long the rivers' banks 

Were scores and scores of pickets from the neighb'ring rebel ranks. 
As glides the Indian warrior when in pursuit of prey, 

So Cushing, through their picket lines, for eight miles held his way 
Until they came to where the ram lay anchored by the shore 

Protected by a pen of logs out thirty feet or more. 

Alarm was made, a bon-fire lit, the bullets 'gan to fly 

About the gallant little craft that glided swiftly by; 
Then, turning with a bird-like sweep, straight at the ram it went 

And struck the logs and forced them in, on its fell errand bent: 
And, while the rebel ironclad belched forth its shot and shell, 

Brave Cushing and his gallant men performed their duty well. 
Though bullets pierced his clothing thrice, mowed down his men 
like grain, 

Yet Cushing the torpedo placed despite this deadly rain. 



53 



There came a fierce volcanic blast, a mighty thund'rous roar; 

And sank the rebel Albemarle to rule the waves no more. 
And what about the fragile craft that served the State so true 

And what about the officer and others of its crew? 
The boat was riddled, crushed by shot, the waves above it broke, 

It lies beside the Albemarle beneath the Roanoke. 
And of the thirteen hearts of oak that manned that fragile craft 

But two escaped captivity and death's untimely shaft. 

Lieutenant Cushing and one more escaped the fate they'd braved 

And, after other dangers great, by Union fleet were saved. 
All honor to the officer! all honor to the men! 

Who put their limbs in jeopardy, who dared the prison pen; 
Who risked their lives on hostile stream, before the rifle ball, 

And to their country's altars came to sacrifice their all. 
And when, in after days, they tell about heroic deed, 

This rare exploit of Cushing's all others will precede. 



54 



